Something Doesn't Smell Right
by Lorendiac
Summary: Ah, the joys of recruiting new henchmen for someone else's gang. You've got to be careful with the screening interviews . . . who knows which applicant might turn out to be an undercover cop, or, even worse, a disguised superhero? Features two obscure Leaguers: Nemesis and Crimson Fox.
1. The Screening Process

**Author's Note:** Two members of the Justice League (DCAU version) will appear in this one, but I couldn't select their names from the local pulldown menus because they're _too obscure_ to be listed therein. Neither superhero ever got a single line of dialogue in any episode of _Justice League Unlimited_; we merely saw them as "faces in the crowd" from time to time. This story is set a few months after they (and dozens of others) joined the League during the episode "Initiation."

One of the two is Nemesis (Tom Tresser); I prefer to save the other as a surprise. If you already know who Tom Tresser is in DC's comic books, then you can skip the rest of this introductory Note with no harm done. (I'm assuming his origin story and capabilities in the DCAU are virtually identical to what was established when he was the regular backup feature in the comic book series _The Brave and the Bold_ in the early 1980s.) But if you're _not_ familiar with the character, let me give you a quick idea of what to watch for in the actual story.

Nemesis has no true superpowers, but is a superb actor and master of disguise. He is also an inventor who uses some high-tech tricks to "change his face" more effectively than conventional theatrical techniques could ever do. He likes to wear a gun in a shoulder holster, but it is usually loaded with "mercy bullets"—another of his inventions; they are formed of a special chemical compound which knocks people unconscious upon contact _without_ creating bloody gunshot wounds in the process. In his earliest appearances in the early 1980s, Nemesis's specialty was infiltrating criminal organizations so he could tear them down after he had gathered enough inside information. That seems to be approximately what he has in mind in this story, too.

* * *

**Something Doesn't Smell Right**

**Chapter One: The Screening Process**

The word was out in the city's underworld: _Kovacs is hiring henchmen._

Not for himself, of course. Everyone knew he wasn't one of the capes-and-spandex set; not the sort of high-profile self-declared "mastermind" who always got a perverse thrill out of publicly taunting superheroes to try their best to find and capture himself and his flunkies . . . which then happened with depressing frequency.

No, Kovacs preferred to stay back out of the limelight and settle for a broker's commission as he attended to a necessary job that most supervillains had neither the time nor the patience to worry about: Interviewing, appraising, and sometimes hiring greedy men who wanted to be part of a big score and were ready to risk the wrath of a superhero or two along the way.

He'd been making his living this way for several years; his chosen field seemed to be recession-proof. There was always another supervillain around who wanted an "instant gang" to do his bidding, and was prepared to pay good money to jump-start the recruiting process. (A large cash retainer up front, of course—supervillains were poor credit risks.)

The only problem was that when you're a success in your field, your name gets around.

Not just among low-level punks, thugs, hoodlums, grifters, safecrackers, and other useful citizens, but sometimes reaching the ears of such troublesome riffraff as local cops, federal agents, and possibly the occasional superhero! Some of whom might even stoop to such duplicity as disguising themselves as honest criminals and trying to enlist for some shady enterprise or other so that they could learn as much as possible before signaling their friends and rolling up a whole gang with one lightning strike.

This was where Kovacs shone. He had a nose for phonies. Not infallible—precious few things were in this crazy world—but with a success rate _way_ above average. And dozens of supervillains were keenly appreciative of that fact. Kovacs started each round of interviews with the assumption that at least one mole was trying to infiltrate whatever was brewing, and so he always rejected the person who "smelled" the fishiest—and usually brushed off a couple of other applicants, just to be on the safe side.

The "smells" in question were not literal odors—which was a good thing, as it happened, because today he probably wouldn't have noticed them! Several hours ago, Kovacs had woken up with very congested sinuses. Yesterday he'd been aware of a sore throat, but had dared to hope things wouldn't get any worse than that. Today he had to do most of his breathing through his mouth; his nasal passages were too clogged to serve as a source of oxygen.

Otherwise, he felt reasonably strong and alert—certainly in good enough shape to reserve a table at a nightclub and then just sit there for several hours, sipping one drink after another, while other people did all running around—coming in, trying to present themselves in the best possible light, and then being accepted or turned away.

Kovacs didn't always recruit in the same club, nor even the same city. No need to be too predictable. Although there were two cities he'd long since sworn to never visit again. You never quite knew when the Man of Steel might be monitoring the chit-chat in any given building in his beloved Metropolis, and as for Gotham . . . well, it had long been Kovacs's devout belief that anyone who tried to stir up trouble in _Batman's_ burg was a masochist, a lunatic, or both!

(Kovacs was no fanatic about this, though—he was perfectly willing to recruit warm bodies _for_ a villain who planned to operate in Metropolis or Gotham in the future, as long the masked client would accept a gang of out-of-town imports to supplement any local talent he'd managed to dredge up _on his own_.)

Tonight should be a typical piece of work. The club was The Grasshopper; the town was Opal City; there was no reason to think _any_ superheroes were active in this area at the moment. It was only a few hours ago that Kovacs had given the word to several people in the local underworld, and they had started circulating it among the sort of people who might like to know that, once again, Kovacs was hiring; sitting all night at a table in The Grasshopper if anyone cared to drop by and apply for a job with an unspecified employer.

Ideally, he'd make his quota before any of the _wrong_ element—the sort of people who join the Justice League, for instance—could hear about it and pop in!

He'd only been here for half an hour, and nobody had tried to wrangle a job yet.

Not that he'd been bored.

A few old acquaintances, well-settled with rackets of their own, were in the club tonight and had swung by his table just to say "hi"— and even before that, some dizzy French dame had tried to strike up an acquaintance right after he strolled in. Not a hustler looking for a john with a fat wallet; he could always spot those. And not a job applicant who wanted to prove she could do as good a job as any man where armed robbery was concerned.

Nah, this had just been a foreign gal with a commendably short skirt showing off a delectable pair of legs; a strawberry blond who was new in town and seemed rather lonely. The French accent added to her appeal, and under other circumstances Kovacs would have been delighted to say sympathetic things, buy her a drink, ask her to dance, and see how it went from there, but tonight he couldn't let himself get distracted from the business at hand. So he'd had to tell her he was going to be awful busy till the wee hours, and she'd finally shrugged philosophically and moved away—but not before asking if he'd be in here again tomorrow night. (He hadn't been planning on it, but had rewritten his plans in the blink of an eye by saying "yes.")

He suddenly realized he hadn't seen her for awhile. Maybe she'd decided no one else in here looked sufficiently handsome and refined for her sophisticated tastes, so she'd moved on to some other hot spot? The idea did not exactly bruise his ego.

She sure wasn't on the dance floor; he was facing in that direction and would've noticed. He was slowly rotating his head, double-checking to see if she might be perched on a barstool or something, when someone stepped up and blocked his view of the bar.

"Mister Kovacs?"

"Yes?" Kovacs looked up. The man staring down at him wore a long checked shirt, well-used blue jeans, and work boots. With that curly black beard and that hawk nose, he was made to order for the part of an extra in a show about lumberjacks—except that the visible portions of his skin didn't have much tan; as if he'd been spending all his time indoors lately. Or working at night and sleeping by day. Or imprisoned?

"I hear you're hiring for someone." The bearded man squeezed his hands together, as if unsure of what else to do with them. "I need the work, Mister Kovacs. I've been in a few tight spots and I don't squeal on nobody if I get caught."

_Double negative, _Kovacs thought._ Strictly speaking, what you just said was that you do squeal on _somebody_. But I know that wasn't what you meant. _

Kovacs asked him a few questions about this and that, and finally decided this guy was no genius, but probably sincere in his desire to make real money a lot faster than he could in any "honest" job. "Okay," Kovacs said finally, passing the applicant a slip of paper. "Tomorrow at seven p.m. you should be at this address. It's a warehouse near the docks. Just ring the bell at the front door and wait for someone to let you in."

It was a bit embarrassing when the man started to thank him effusively instead of just nodding and leaving—but Kovacs finally managed to get rid of the fellow without being too brusque about it.

* * *

Another prospect came over a few minutes later. He was wearing a dark green suit that Kovacs's trained eye estimated at two thousand dollars, minimum—probably bought within the last couple of months—and his shoes added at least five hundred more.

Not to mention the Rolex on the left wrist.

Kovacs liked what he saw—you didn't meet many cops who could afford to dude themselves up to that extent. This guy's wardrobe indicated he'd worked on some lucrative capers in the past.

This man introduced himself by name—Henry Eckhart. He was cagey. Without quite saying anything that could have been used against him in court, he indicated that he used to be part of a team of four. Sadly enough, the other three fellows were now facing hard time on a bank robbery rap after a run-in with Green Arrow in Star City.

Eckhart _didn't_ say, in so many words, that he'd been part of that bank job and had been lucky enough to get away clean with a good piece of the loot while the Emerald Archer was scuffling with the others, but that thought was definitely hanging in the air. It would certainly explain how he could afford his sartorial style. Not to mention why he'd felt it advisable to relocate to a new city and then start looking for a new gang to run with.

Kovacs probed for details of the man's knowledge of modern security systems, vaults, and so forth, and concluded that the guy really had spent some time in banks after hours. He gave Eckhart the same instructions he'd given the lumberjack type, and Eckhart took the hint and moved away without trying to prolong the conversation.

* * *

This man was wearing an ordinary suit, probably bought off the rack in a department store, and not recently. "Thad Spangler," he said distinctly, and then reached up to nervously tug at his collar. The reason for his nervousness became clear a moment later, when he added, "I'm l-l-looking for work."

Looking at Spangler's thin-featured face and defensive manner, Kovacs could believe that _any_ job application process was torture for a man who apparently stuttered when under stress. Fascinated by this, but polite enough not to express curiosity about the stutter _per se_, Kovacs went ahead with some routine questions about work history, technical skills, and so forth . . . more because of a desire to see and hear _how_ the man answered them, than because of any profound interest in the details of what Spangler actually said.

He quickly decided that if the stutter were a deliberate put-on, it would have been a superb piece of acting. Kovacs couldn't remember ever meeting—nor even hearing of—any undercover cop who would humiliate himself in that particular way for the sake of seeming uncoplike. And there was no feeling that Spangler was hamming it up; no sense of hidden amusement in his eyes, or tone, or body language—he was just self-consciously ignoring his own stutter, and seemed relieved that Kovacs was making an effort to do the same!

In the end, it was an easy decision to make. The current client was not one of the glibbest supervillains who had ever walked the earth—but he rather liked to _think_ he was. Having a henchman who sometimes spoke with a stutter would allow the client to feel vastly superior to the hired help in terms of oratory. And it was all about making the customer happy; especially when you were counting on getting a lot of repeat business!

Kovacs gave Spangler a card and told him to be there at seven o'clock tomorrow evening.

* * *

The next prospect was one of those strong silent types—and laying it on thick to make sure nobody missed the point.

A black man with a shaven head, wearing sunglasses he couldn't possibly need at this hour of the night, slid into a chair. Might be in his forties, but his leather jacket was open in front, showing off a tight shirt that made it clear the wearer was a husky fellow with no trace of a beer belly. Probably pumped iron three times a week in a local gym.

Given that Kovacs's current client had been known to complain, after previous capers, about some recruits not having enough wind when it was necessary to _run_ through a tunnel, this athlete just might serve to show that Kovacs was doing his best to meet the client's standards.

It occurred to him that the black man still hadn't introduced himself, nor said anything at all—the first applicant tonight to take that approach. Kovacs gave the guy another minute, then asked in a bored tone, "Something you want?"

"Work." The voice was cold.

"Experience?"

"Plenty."

Kovacs leaned back in his chair and folded his arms. "Specifically?"

"Enforcement. Collections. Interrogations. Ask Prince Jonah about Delavane."

Prince Jonah was a local big shot in the rackets. Kovacs asked the obvious question: "If working for the Prince is going so well, why are you looking for a new job?"

The black man—called Delavane, evidently—smiled without any humor. "Starting six months vacation. Jonah doesn't mind."

Left unsaid was the idea that even if Prince Jonah were entirely satisfied with his flunky's work, there might be cogent reasons for his wanting Delavane to get out of town for awhile—to avoid forthcoming subpoenas, for instance.

Kovacs didn't care for the way this guy had responded in single-word sentences at first, but hey, it wasn't like they'd have to put up with each other every day from now on. The client might be charmed by this tough-and-terse approach.

On the _other_ hand . . . if it turned out that the client were in the mood to hurt, or even kill, one of his new hires early on, calling it a disciplinary measure and turning the sap into an object lesson for all the other raw recruits, then Delavane with his surly attitude was likely to be first pick!

This thought cheered Kovacs considerably, and so it was with real warmth that he beamed at the black man, looking at where the eyes ought to be lurking behind those silly shades, and invited him to be at the front door of a certain warehouse tomorrow evening.

* * *

The latest prospect had a pale scar on the right side of his jaw—looked like an old knife wound (or a cut from some other straight edge). He settled into a chair and looked Kovacs straight in the eye. "Name's Farnham. Hear you're hirin'. I've got experience in that line. Love to get some more."

This was the first time tonight that anyone had claimed to have worked with the capes-and-spandex set before. Kovacs obligingly asked the obvious question: "What experience?"

Farnham ran a tanned hand through his thinning hair. "I useta live in Gotham. Ran with Joker's gang for a few big capers. Collected my share of the swag and finally got out while the gettin' was good."

"And moved down to Opal? Why? Afraid of Batman?"

"Not really. All he ever does is knock ya down and hand ya over to the cops. Then a shyster bails ya out, and you're back on the street for awhile. The Bat _never_ shows up in court to testify, so there's a fightin' chance the whole thing gets thrown out 'for lack of evidence' if no civilian witnesses were on the scene. It was my own boss that scared me!"

"Go on."

"Whaddaya mean, go on? Didn't ya ever meet that pasty-faced clown, mac? The guy's _crazy_."

"You don't say. What did you do before your tenure with Joker?"

"This and that. Hitch with the Army, back in the mid-nineties. Didn't see any real action, but I learned to handle all sorts of weapons. That came in handy later, when I was findin' ways to make ends meet around Gotham 'fore a buddy told me Joker was out of Arkham again and lookin' for talent."

"I see." Kovacs leaned back in his chair and pondered.

Solid military training . . . previous experience at catering to the ego of a 'supervillain' . . . a nice calm contempt for the efficiency of the criminal justice system . . . not likely to panic if a goody-goody two-shoes superhero appeared on the scene in the middle of a heist . . .

On the face of it, this man was the best-qualified recruit he'd seen all night!

Which also summed up the problem, didn't it? Farnham was just _too_ good. He probably had the expertise he claimed, but something about him was annoying Kovacs's sensitive nose (figuratively speaking). Almost as if the fellow were trying really hard to make precisely the right impression. Even if his background were just as he said, there was always the possibility that after he'd left Gotham for greener pastures, he'd run afoul of the law and was now being compelled to wear a wire in exchange for a plea-bargain.

Kovacs pulled out a fresh handkerchief and tried to blow his nose (without much success), then finally pronounced his decision. "Sorry, Farnham, but I don't think you're quite what this client is looking for. Not your fault; that's just the way it is." He shook his head in sorrow at the injustice of this wicked world.

Farnham just sat there, staring across the table in shock.

Kovacs didn't blame the man for being surprised by this rejection; indeed, it was possible that not hiring him was a case of letting a potentially valuable asset slip away . . . but having taken a stand, it was necessary to stick to it instead of getting all wishy-washy. "I'm not playing games, Farnham. This just isn't the right job for you. The next time you hear I'm in town, try me again—I might have something right up your alley, and I'm serious about that!" (He was, too. If he didn't get the bad vibe next time, he might very well end up playing matchmaker for Farnham the second time around.)

The bad news finally sunk in. Farnham heaved himself to his feet, worked his mouth for a moment as if wanting to argue, then recovered his dignity and stalked away, making straight for the exit without a backward glance. Kovacs had to admire the way the man was taking it without a whimper.

* * *

**Author's Note:** When I got the basic idea for the plot, and started writing, I was sure this would be just another cute little one-shot. But the full text turned out to be over six thousand words, and I've _never_ posted anything that long as a "single-chapter story" on this site. No rule against it; just a matter of personal taste. So I've turned it into a two-parter. The obvious place to end Chapter One was right here, when we have just seen the last of Kovacs's point-of-view. (By the way, Mr. Kovacs is my own creation—don't feel bad about not recognizing him from any old episodes.)

As you must have guessed by now, Nemesis has already appeared onstage—disguised, naturally. In Chapter Two, he will resume his normal look and compare notes with the teammate who asked him to approach Mr. Kovacs in the first place. I plan to post that one by the end of this week.


	2. Comparing Notes

**Author's Note:** You are about to learn the name of the other superhero involved in this story, but if you don't already know exactly who she is and what she can do, then please believe that I have good reasons for _not_ giving you a quick summary of her distinguishing characteristics _until_ the Aufthor's Note at the vfery bottom, after I've wrapped up the plot!

* * *

**Chapter Two: Comparing Notes**

The Crimson Fox was stretched out on a blanket atop the roof of an office building across from The Grasshopper. For the past three hours she'd been scrutinizing any man who came out that door—and quickly losing interest in each as he failed to make the proper signal.

A woman of action by temperament, she had precious little experience in stakeouts—and was already convinced she didn't like them. So much time wasted, lying still and doing nothing! She'd much rather be the one inside the club, flaunting her legs and living on the edge as she tried to charm a criminal into trusting her, but she'd already tried that approach tonight and it had fizzled.

For at least the twentieth time since choosing this vantage point, she reflected that if anyone ever invented a surefire vaccine for all strains of the common cold, it would make _her_ life so much easier . . .

A man with thin brown hair strolled out of the club and paused to scratch the back of his right wrist with his left forefinger, as if he had just noticed a mosquito bite. One . . . two . . . three . . . four times, and then he turned and started moving west along the sidewalk at a brisk pace.

The Crimson Fox smiled, not caring that no one could see it.

The man was Nemesis; he had finished his approach and was ready to call it a night; and now she had something to do!

Per the plan, she would let him get at least a block ahead before following him from above, and study the street to see if anyone else was likewise shadowing him (probably at ground level). Then stay above and behind him for several more blocks, checking and double-checking to see if any tails had been waiting for him to pass their stations before they fell in behind.

By the time Nemesis had gone two blocks, three people had caught The Fox's eye as possible tails.

Within another minute, one couple had disqualified themselves by going into a restaurant and getting in line to wait for a table.

That left a young African-American male whom she wasn't sure about—roughly one minute after Nemesis left the club, this other fellow had emerged from a doorway and started walking in the same direction, lagging about half a block behind.

But after four blocks, Nemesis turned south on Pinellas. When the black guy reached the same intersection, he continued westward without a flicker of hesitation.

Of course, there could have been a tag-team of followers, but The Fox studied the terrain and saw no trace of anyone else moving in to take up the slack. She kept leaping from rooftop to rooftop and soon caught sight of Nemesis again. (The young black man never reappeared.)

Five turns and twelve blocks later, Nemesis was standing motionless in the space behind an apartment building. Not a situation she would have recommended for a lone man in this part of Opal City at this late hour, but any Justice Leaguer who couldn't handle the occasional street tough in a dark alley would be a feeble excuse for a superhero!

(Not that any such toughs appeared to be taking an interest.)

The arrangement was that when Nemesis stopped cold this way, it meant he was ready to chat. He'd loiter for five minutes.

If she didn't approach him in that time, it would mean he _was_ wearing a tail, and then he'd have to improvise—without blowing his cover, of course. Later, if and when he felt the time was right, he'd give her a buzz via their JLA communicators, but until then they were maintaining radio silence.

In the event, there were no tails and The Crimson Fox saw no need to keep him waiting.

"So 'ow did it go?" she inquired as she dropped lightly from a fire escape to land four meters in front of her colleague.

The scar-faced man scowled and spoke in a harsh tone, full of resentment. "He seemed to think I was too good to be true, see? I told him about workin' with Joker's gang for a spell, so he'd savvy I was no amateur, but that didn't rub him the right way."

Coarsely, he spat to one side. "Well, I don't need his crummy job, see? I've been around. Gotten m'hands dirty. That counts for somethin' in this racket. Lots of other masked guys're gonna know they can get a good deal by hirin' _me_ for a caper 'stead of some snot-nosed kid who thinks he's _already_ a hardcase just 'cause he's packin' heat."

If she hadn't known better, she'd _never_ have believed this was the same fellow who was always so urbane in his remarks to any woman he encountered aboard the Watchtower, whether a costumed teammate or just one of the support staff. This was the first time she'd seen proof that Nemesis had the spark of a true actor. (Did he follow the Stanislavski Method?)

Clearly a superb performer in addition to the whole master-of-disguise bit, but his masculine pride must be wounded by the way his best effort had fallen flat with a skeptical audience of one.

"Zat was—'ow do you say?—ze rotten luck, _mon ami_. I truly think you 'ave ze _patois_ of ze classic American tough guy down pat, if ze _film noir _productions I 'ave seen are any indication."

Before she finished speaking, the scar-faced man had reached up to fiddle with something in his jacket collar. A puff of green smoke occluded his features for a few seconds, and then a much more appealing face, square-jawed and handsome beneath a full head of blond hair, was smiling at her warmly. A moment later, it became clear that his voice had changed accordingly.

"Thanks!" he said cheerily. "That genre and a lot of hard-boiled detective literature were what I modeled this role upon. Glad to know _someone_ appreciates the effect." His smile broadened. "But your attempt to cheer me up is misplaced—the evening hasn't been wasted."

"Really?"

"Well, sure. Kovacs may have rejected me the last time around, but he still hired me the _other_ four times, didn't he?"

"_Four?"_ She blinked. "_M'sieu_, you are pulling my leg, no?"

"No!" he said agreeably. "As in: I'm _not._ I was a bearded lumberjack, and a well-dressed dandy, and a lean fellow with an old suit and a stutter, and an intense black guy with a shaven scalp who speaks as little as possible. You must've seen them all going in and out?"

"But of course! But none of zem gave ze signal as zey exited, and I never thought you'd need to go in more zan once before making contact. Why so many roles?"

Nemesis spread his hands with an expressive shrug. "I call it 'the shotgun approach.' Fire enough pellets in the right general direction, and at least one of them is likely to hit something. Remember, you called me in on this one rather abruptly. No time to do much research on Mr. Kovacs, meaning I started with no idea of what sort of hoodlum he'd _prefer_ to hire for his latest client, so I reached into my bag of tricks, pulled out _several_ faces, voices, and outfits, and figured I'd try one personality after another until I struck gold. When I got lucky on the first try, I figured I might as well keep practicing my thespian skills and see how far I could take my luck.

"He probably has a quota—'hire up to ten henchmen,' or whatever the magic number is. The more of _me_ he hires to show up at the right place and time, the less _real_ henchmen will be hanging around with itchy trigger fingers when we make our bust. No need to complicate the scene with too many random factors!"

"But will 'e not be suspicious if only 'alf of 'is new recruits appear at ze designated spot?"

"He might be . . . but I was planning to pad things a little in order to jolly him along until he gives his client the signal that it's safe to come in and greet the new blood. If we can get a few other guys from the League to give us a little of their time tomorrow evening, I can spruce them up to look just as I did in different roles. That's assuming the Martian Manhunter isn't in the mood for a little field work—if he cares to join the game, he could just download the relevant memories from my head and then shapeshift to match."

"Enough men to fill four of your roles, plus myself, would make five. Do we really need so many 'eroes for one bust?"

"Beats me—I still have no idea _who_ Kovacs is fronting for, this time around. But I don't mean to be greedy," Nemesis added good-humoredly, pulling a card from a pocket and holding it out toward her. "Here's where I'm supposed to be at 7 PM tomorrow. Now you know everything I know. It _was_ your case first. If you want me to bow out right now, and let you cover the warehouse alone tomorrow night, I'll grit my teeth and pretend I'm not worried about worst-case scenarios."

She accepted the card, then waved aside his concerns with a sweeping gesture. "Zere is no need for such restraint. Invite 'omever you please."

Tactfully left unsaid by both parties was that her superpowers were fairly low-key, and that Nemesis—according to the form he'd filled out on the day they both joined the League—had _none_. As far as artificial weapons were concerned, The Crimson Fox had retractable steel claws built into her gloves, and Nemesis preferred to use an ordinary sidearm (usually firing special "bullets" that knocked out ordinary people without drilling holes in their flesh).

But if the mystery client of M. Kovacs proved to be someone far more formidable, perhaps with incredible strength and bulletproof skin, then it would be very handy indeed to have an ally of similar sturdiness on the scene. The Crimson Fox did not relish the alternative of needing to report back that the two of them had merely managed to _identify_ the villain who was hiring a new crew . . . while he contemptuously shrugged off their best attacks before making a clean getaway.

It was a fair guess that Nemesis felt much the same . . . but she noted with satisfaction that he'd been willing to defer to her decision since she was "the first hero up" in this investigation.

Put that together with some of his other strange habits, such as the way he consistently looked at her _face_ each time they conversed, and she had to admit that this blond American was much more of a gentleman than some of his fellow males among the League. (B'wana Beast sprang to mind as an obvious counterexample, but not the only one.)

She decided to steer the conversation away from line-of-duty matters and into a more personal vein. "One question, _mon ami,_ if I may be so bold . . . do you use tricky electronics to change your voice to match each face, or is it just zat your vocal cords are versatile and well-trained?"

He seemed startled by the question, but answered readily enough. "Training, usually—electronic aids, occasionally. I took a few acting classes in college and was a regular in the amateur theatricals. Had a certain talent for mimicry. The audience didn't fall asleep when I was onstage; that's usually a good sign. Always _knew_ I was meant for law enforcement, though—but later, when . . . things changed . . . and I decided to become more of a lone wolf, I started doing this kind of undercover work on a regular basis, and found I was better at real-life impersonations than I had dared hope in my college days." He cocked his head at her. "So, do you _also_ have some training as an actress, or is it just natural talent for imitating different accents?"

Honestly surprised at the suggestion of a thespian background, she blinked at him before asking innocently (in her native French): "_Pardonnez-moi?_"

"Well, I heard you chatting with Flash at the last general meeting, and there was just a _trace_ of Gallic lilt in your English, but tonight it's much more obvious that this is not your birth tongue. What do you do, _deliberately_ turn the stronger accent on and off in alternate weeks, just to keep everybody guessing?"

He paused expectantly . . . and she didn't take the bait, preferring to give him an enigmatic smile. (She might not be the versatile actor that he was, but she had practiced _that_ smile in front of her mirror a good many times and was quite proud of it.)

"Not necessarily a bad tactic," he finally conceded (evidently meaning the variable accent).

The Crimson Fox made a decision and increased the voltage in her smile. "Your acting may be superb, but your interrogation technique needs some work, _mon cher Némésis_. Do you really expect to coax a woman into sharing some of 'er intimate secrets in zis dismal setting?" She waved a hand at a nearby dumpster to illustrate her point. "Per'aps we should adjourn to a café in Paris for breakfast and zen you can try to charm some answers out of me?" (Her native France was seven hours ahead of where they were standing—meaning this was a perfect time to sit down for breakfast in the City of Light if they arranged to teleport over there right now.)

For a moment she thought he was going to take her up on it . . .

"Oh my gosh, will you look at the time?" he said suddenly, pulling back his sleeve to peer at a watch and seeming agitated for the first time in their conversation. "I really need to get back to my van—over thataway—" he pointed—"before the _real_ Delavane wakes up and makes a ruckus."

"Delavane?"

"The black guy whose face I copied. I figured I might as well be ready to impersonate one honest-to-goodness case of _local_ talent; someone whose credentials are easily checked if Kovacs makes a couple of phone calls. So I found Delavane and shot him (with my special mercy bullets) before I ever went into the club. The back of my van has no windows; no way for rubberneckers to peer in and realize there's a handcuffed prisoner curled up on the floor. Now I'd better give him another dose, and then figure out where I'm going to stash him for the next twenty-four hours so he can't blow the whistle on my charade before we've wrapped this up."

The Crimson Fox smelled something fishy about this excuse. "Could you not just 'ave 'im beamed up to the Tower and placed in a 'olding cell?"

"Not a great idea," Nemesis said quickly. "Strictly speaking, he's not under arrest on any criminal charge at the moment. I don't want to put Superman and Wonder Woman and all the rest in the awkward position of being _knowing accessories_ to unlawful detention. I'll have to rustle up something on my own—a problem I've faced before, but one best tackled alone. No need to spread the guilt."

As far as she was concerned, the key word was_ alone._ That made it painfully clear: He _wasn't_ about to offer her a lift in his van, and if she pressed the point, he'd just say it was for her own good. "Plausible deniability," and all that.

Looking helpless (assuming she could?) and appealing to his chivalrous instincts by asking if he really meant to leave her stranded in a _bad_ part of town wouldn't work either . . . for one thing, he knew she could use her Justice League communicator to ask the Watchtower to beam her up, and then to beam her back down to wherever she wanted to go. (A favorite breakfast café in Paris, for instance.)

All this flashed through her head in a second or two . . . then she decided she had enough pride to not make it look as if she were desperate to prolong this unfruitful conversation. "Call me a few 'ours before the scheduled rendezvous," she said cheerily, and then leaped upward, grabbed onto a fire escape, swung herself up over a railing and began scampering up the steps toward the roof.

When she reached the top and glanced down to see if he had been admiring the way her lithe body moved with superhuman agility, she only saw his back from a distance. Nemesis had wasted no time in jogging towards the nearby parking lot where he had left a plain black van.

_Well, _she told herself philophically,_ at least he trusts _me_ enough to let me know he's breaking a few laws by holding M'sieu Delavane overnight. _

If there really _was_ a prisoner languishing in the back of that van—she _only_ had Nemesis's word for it, and he had remembered that hoodlum awfully suddenly . . . when he wanted an excuse to get away from her?

Eligible men in Paris did not normally try to find excuses to move _away_ from the lovely and wealthy Vivian D'Aramis when she was in a playful mood, so this was _terra incognita_ for her. Why was the American so skittish?

It was almost enough to make her reconsider the policy she and Constance had sworn to uphold: _Never_ using their super-pheromones on close friends and teammates!

* * *

Twenty minutes later and six miles away, Nemesis parked his car inside a warehouse he'd leased a year ago (just in case he ever needed some private storage space in Opal City) and wiped his forehead with the back of his hand. That had been a narrow escape!

There he'd been, listening to The Crimson Fox flirt with him in that flattering way that Frenchwomen had . . . and suddenly becoming aware of the _strong_ urge to reciprocate by agreeing to a ridiculously fearly breakfast (by his biological clock) . . . and then in the nick of time he'd remembered _why_ he'd been called in on this case at all!

The Crimson Fox had somehow gotten word that Kovacs was hiring at The Grasshopper, and had gone in there herself to flirt with him while cranking up her super-pheromones to make the recruiter more garrulous. Ideally, he'd have tried to impress her by blabbing about the scary supervillain he was representing tonight. Unfortunately, Kovacs proved to have a head cold that made him nearly immune to The Fox's primary superpower, so she'd quickly abandoned that approach and called in an expert on infiltration tactics to assault the problem from a different angle.

So far, so good; heroes joining forces to use their different strengths against one tricky problem after another was pretty much the entire mission statement of the recently-expanded Justice League.

The only problem was that Nemesis _didn't_ have a head cold. While standing just a few feet away from him and looking adorable, The Crimson Fox might have been _flooding_ the air in that alley with her unique super-pheromones . . . if she felt the urge.

Tom Tresser had enough trouble in his life without being distracted and manipulated by invisible biochemical factors meant to sap his free will. He'd realized in a flash that he had to get away before his self-control slipped and he made a complete fool of himself—and he'd also realized there was no point in asking her if she was cranking out super-pheromones for his benefit. Whether she was or wasn't, it was dollars to doughnuts that she'd indignantly deny it!

Fortunately, the captive Delavane had provided a reasonable excuse when he started searching for one . . .

Well, he was committed to following through with this case tomorrow evening, which meant that he'd better find a way to shield himself from her pheromones before he saw her again.

Imitate Kovacs's method? No. The incubation of a cold virus averaged about two days . . . trying to expose himself tonight was no good; it wouldn't pay off as early as tomorrow night.

Blatantly wearing a gas mask to the bust would be offensive—not to mention blowing his cover when Kovacs wondered why a new hire was dressed as if he expected a SWAT team to shoot in the tear gas any minute now . . ..

Were there any fast-acting drugs that gave you a stuffed-up head when you were otherwise in the pink of health; the exact opposites of decongestants? He'd never wanted one before; he'd have to research it on the Internet.

Failing that, he did keep some sets of nose filters in his workshop, but he almost never wore the silly things and wasn't sure how well they'd fare against pheromones, metahuman or otherwise. There might be a way to test that in a hurry . . .

Tom Tresser sighed. Somehow, he didn't think he was going to get much sleep tonight . . .

* * *

**Author's Notes:** Now to explain about The Crimson Fox. If you already know _all about_ that character, you can skip down to the last two paragraphs of this Note if you're in a hurry. As with Nemesis, I assume that the DCAU version of The Crimson Fox is much the same as the character who debuted in old comic books in my collection.

In the _Justice League Europe_ comic that began in 1989, the European branch of the League acquired a mysterious new member called "The Crimson Fox." She was obviously French, but didn't share her secret identity with her new friends right away. Eventually "she" was revealed to be identical twin sisters (Constance and Vivian D'Aramis) who took turns wearing the same costume. Both women spoke English, but for some reason Vivian had much less practice in that language, so she came across as more exotic (and dare I say "funnier"?) because her dialogue was written with a _strong_ French accent. For instance, she might say "zis is not so 'ard" instead of "this is not so hard." (I used Vivian in this story, and it's the first time I ever tried to write such an accent.)

The twins had identical superpowers. These were supposed to include _some degree_ of superhuman strength, speed, agility, etc., to make them more effective in hand-to-hand combat (although we're not talking "I can move faster than a speeding bullet" or anything equally obvious), but their key superpower was of a very different nature. Each sister could emit a "super-pheromone" which the typical red-blooded man would find _incredibly_ alluring. These pheromones were _only_ released when Vivian or Constance wanted them to be; not a constant, automatic process. I don't think the super-pheromones affected other women at all. (For that matter, although readers were _told_ this power existed, I sure _don't_ remember either sister getting much _use_ out of it when the JLE confronted male supervillains. Perhaps murderous _fanatics_ tend to be immune to such distractions? And let's be fair: some of the JLE's scariest foes weren't even human, so how much impact would you expect a human pheromone to have on them?)

I assume the super-pheromones are most effective if plenty of molecules are inhaled through the nose and quickly reach a man's olfactory nerve. Going in through his mouth and then down into his lungs just doesn't have that same kick. Therefore, Kovacs's congested head makes him (temporarily) almost immune to this superpower. The woman whom he regarded as a "dizzy French dame" (Vivian D'Aramis in civilian clothes) quickly realized she wouldn't be able to charm him enough to make him spill his guts about his current client, so she called in some help!

I figure new recruits in the DCAU Justice Leafgue are _required_ to explain what superpowers and notable skills they have (if any) . . . so that any given member will _know_ what can reasonably be expected of any other teammate during a field mission. Thus, The Crimson Fox called Nemesis when she wanted a master of disguise, and he previously had heard about what her super-pheromones are capable of doing to affect a man's judgment.

But Nemesis doesn't have a surefire way of telling whether that power is _actually_ being used at any given moment. So when he suddenly notices himself feeling very attracted to the lady, he _assumes_ the worst and beats a hasty retreat to get far away from her unfairly manipulative super-pheromones. You know and I know that she scrupulously _wasn't_ emitting those pheromones at him in the first place—preferring to "play fair" by relying on her natural charm—but the point is that Nemesis has developed "professional paranoia" after all that dangerous undercover work he's done! I don't know when (or if) they will get that straightened out, but I'm afraid it won't happen soon (since _this_ fanfic is now over, as far as I'm concerned).


End file.
